Let The Rain Fall
by ScubaKanga
Summary: There was a day when hate forgot to act, when Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty stood on a cliff in the pouring rain and watched the sea together. Not slash.


**Let The Rain Fall**

It defied all the odds. It was impossible, could never have happened. Such a simple thing yet so unlikely. No-one ever believed it occurred. The day the world thought was a lie.

Yet perhaps, if one actually stopped and thought about it, perhaps it is slightly believable, if just slightly. For, though it is easily and frequently forgotten, criminals are humans too. Granted, some are insane killers with no sense of justice, but they are not all like that. If a man does wrong, it does not destroy his emotions. They can get caught out, they can feel grief, they can feel compassion – and that is where this story builds its foundations.

Sherlock Holmes was raining from clouded eyes, and the world was crying from clouded skies. He did not have to do anything – nature was showing his feelings for him. The sky cried, the wind screamed and the sea writhed in eternal fury. And so he just stood there, useless. He did not move, his face was expressionless, but he could not stop the rain. Wandering through clouds of grey thought, staring at the grey sky.

Perhaps it was obvious what he was thinking if one looked into his eyes. Someone once said eyes were the windows to the soul – maybe that was why the eyes of corpses looked empty, because the souls had left.

So did his eyes show his thoughts? Could it be possible to look into them and know where his mind was? Could they tell that there was just an unbearable, tormented silence, saying more than words ever would? Could they know that _he _should be a corpse, because he felt no soul? Was the emptiness there?

No. It couldn't show that his spirit had escaped, soaking into the surroundings, tainting them, torturing them. There was no-one who could tell. There was no-one, and there never would be.

Oh – he had done it again. Let passion inject itself into his thoughts, and now he couldn't get the fog to lift. On second thoughts, perhaps it was better to not think logically. Perhaps he could just forget – wouldn't that be perfect?

He closed his eyes, tried to block out the tears, the fury, the anguish. It was futile. He could still smell the salt, hear the howling, feel the sorrow drench him. Still taste the sadness. What a pointless feeling.

Evidently this was what normal people felt. How did they cope with something so powerful as emotion every day? The people of the world were all part of a web, interlocked in hate, love and betrayal.

Why was he surprised to feel something now? He knew the answer really. He had always believed, with a mere spark of certainty that hid away inside him, that he was different. Quietly sure that he would never go so low as to suffer a strong emotion. He regarded them as a nuisance, causing impulsive reactions with bad consequences. Look what love had done. And though he hated to admit it, he, Sherlock Holmes, had believed he was above all that, and that it made him superior.

Such a shock when they came. The emotions. They came sneering and sliding and sneaking and rustling and whispering and clawing and slithering and slipping and slinking and lurking and skulking and mocking and jeering and creeping and prowling and hunting and stalking and flitting and roving and roaming and claiming and clutching the world. He had tried so hard to fight. Not like this. Never like this, He was a machine, wasn't he? A brain with no heart.

It wasn't daytime. It wasn't exactly night-time either. The moon hadn't fully prepared itself, and the sun had just fallen into the sea like a dying dream falls from the mind, dragging her cloak of colours behind her, leaving black, black, black. Everything was falling – the sun, the day, the tears, even the ground had abruptly fallen away at the dangerously close cliff edge. And Sherlock Holmes was falling too, inside.

XXXX

On a tree somewhere far away, a barren tree where the leaves had long since taken their final bow, sat a bird as black as grief. It was wet and cold, and nothing could be done. The bird didn't care – it just sat and stared into a different place.

XXXX

James Moriarty walked along the cliff. He was bored. Everything was so _bleak._ Such disheartening weather. The world was in the makings of a thunderstorm, rumbling and roaring like some surreal steam train.

Usually when he was bored, he would cause havoc. Have fun. Today though, to his immense surprise, the idea did not appeal. It would only make things even grimmer, and the cycle would start again. No fun. In fact, he was tired. So tired. A sudden inexplicable lapse of energy had occurred. He didn't want to run any more. But it was never over. Never done.

XXXX

Another bird, a completely white one, as white as silence, joined the first. They were wet and cold, and nothing could be done. The birds didn't care – they just sat and listened to the secrets whisper down the rain.

XXXX

That's when he saw Sherlock Holmes. He had almost passed the man, not noticing who he was. In sudden recognition, he stopped. He didn't want to do this, not now. _I want to go home._ But there was no home for him.

The detective had his back to him, but what he said was clear, sewn into the air, imprinted into the sky.

'He's gone.' The words stumbled out, harsh and jagged. Abruptly, the man turned around and looked at him. James Moriarty felt an odd jolt as he realised uneasily that Sherlock Holmes's eyes were framed in red, but it was pouring down too hard to discern the wetness on his face. It was an odd feeling that had hit him, one of … what? Surprise? Awkwardness? Or – no. Never that. Well, he couldn't place it, but the he wished he was somewhere else more than ever. Moriarty put his hands in his pockets and came closer.

'Go on,' he continued, each syllable striking Moriarty as if it were a rock, 'Kill me. You know you want to, you know you can. I don't care. There's nothing left for me here. Not even Watson matters now. I'm letting you, asking you – kill me. Why don't you? Look at this world. It's so cruel, so… so _boring.'_

Moriarty said nothing, determined not to betray his thoughts. But Sherlock Holmes was right. It would be so easy. Just a shove over the edge, and his greatest enemy would be finished, gone for ever. The perfect opportunity.

Shouldn't this be a brilliant moment? Why didn't he feel happy? The detective was broken. But… there was something wrong. Not like this. He felt, he _knew, _this wasn't right. It was never meant to be like this. He couldn't do it now, not with the man losing himself in despair, not even trying to fight. Oh, he was confused, didn't understand what he meant. Every time he looked at Holmes, he felt that jolt of – oh, it didn't make any sense _but it was true – _sympathy.

Finally, the sky broke down and the first lightning bolt was tattooed onto the world. The two men stood next to each other, one certain he was about to die, and contemplated the turmoiled black sea which lunged at the cliff, biting and clawing at it before drawing back to try again, trapped in a cycle. Water flung itself at the ground. Both men were dripping and shivering slightly, but neither seemed to notice. Nature was in a furious battle. Wind enveloped them, muttering in their ears desperately, and then fled.

For a long time James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes stood side by side, listening to Earth's anguished cries, and did nothing, the last thing said piercing every drop.

Then the response came, the response that makes this tale eternal. The criminal, dangerous killer, arch-enemy, spoke for the first time he'd been there.

'Not today. I'm – tired.'

And he walked away.

XXXX

The second bird eventually flew away. The first bird stayed motionless for a long time, before it too spread its wings and remembered how to fly.

**The End**

-_I leave it to the imagination to decide why Holmes is sad, where they are and why, and where Watson is, because he's not dead._

_By the way, had to throw this in because it's so cool, I got a letter from Edward Hardwicke!_

_Right, anyway._


End file.
